


i have tried in my way to be free

by hesperia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesperia/pseuds/hesperia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/3539.html?view=2096339#t2096339">asoiafkinkmeme</a>, for poose78's prompt:<i>Robb/Sansa, she only allows him to touch her through her small clothes.</i> </p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">title stolen from Leonard Cohen's Bird on a Wire</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	i have tried in my way to be free

Sansa comes to him in the library at Riverrun. It has been over a moon now, since she came back to them, since he made the switch for her with the Kingslayer. She is not the same Sansa she once was, the smiling girl who left Winterfell with their father. She is quieter, more subdued then she has ever been; she no longer talks of songs, or knights, and though she does not say it, the marks upon her spirit are enough that Robb will never forgive himself for how long he left her in Joffrey's clutches. 

"Are you well?" he asks, when she leans back against one of the bookshelves. She is taller than she was, almost as tall as him now, and her hair has darkened, more auburn like his too. 

"I will be," she says, she picks up a random book and her eyes scan the cover before she puts it back. She offers him a small smile, but it is far from genuine and it breaks Robb's heart. 

He goes to her, pulls her into his chest to wrap his arms around her, to squeeze her tight in his embrace. "Tell me how to help you, Sansa," he pleads with her, his face against the crown of her head; his nose is in her hair, and he breathes in her scent. "I'll do whatever you ask of me."

Sansa presses her face against his throat, and her fingers curl into his doublet. "Do you love me?" she whispers, her eyes dark and blue, they search his face and he nods. He slips his hands to her cheeks, and cups her face in his hands. 

"Gods, Sansa, of course I do. You are my sister." 

"Will you touch me?" she asks, her voice a whisper, barely audible in the quiet of the library, but the tone of her voice, the want her tone implies, makes Robb's chest tighten. 

"I am touching you," he says, but the words are childish as they spill out of his mouth, and Sansa is shaking her head. 

"Right here," she says, and she circles her fingers around his wrist to pull his hand from her face and down. She draws her skirts up, and presses his hand over the soft linen of her smallclothes. Robb lets out a shaky breath, can feel the damp and sticky material beneath his fingers. "Please?" Sansa asks, her voice is tense, her body on edge, and Robb nods, because he can never say no to her, never again, not after all she has borne for his cause, for their family, for the North. But he will never say no to her, and the Gods can damn him, the old and the new together. 

Robb moves his hand up the front of her smallclothes, the tips of his fingers curl over the edge to pull them down, but Sansa stops him, her hand on his wrist. "Just over them," she says, as if some how this makes it better, as if it is not as bad when his fingers do not touch her flesh. 

They both know this is a lie, but Robb does as she asks, presses his two fingers over the wet material that sticks to the contours of her body, he strokes her softly, searches for her nub beneath the material. Sansa jumps when he finds it, her hands reach out to grab at him, one curling into his hair at the back of his head, the other on his shoulder. 

Their faces are close now, and Robb can see sweat beading on Sansa's upper lip as she rocks her hips against him. He knows if he kissed her now he would find it sweet and salty, and he wonders if her mouth would taste of the lemon cakes she loves so much. The material is wet beneath his fingers now, and while it is slick and warm, it is not her slick and her warmth, only a shade of it. 

Robb wishes he could dip his fingers inside of her, wants to feel the silk of her around his fingers, wants to stroke deep inside of her until she bursts; when she does he'll put his mouth on her, lapping up every drop, and he'll bring her to her peak over and over. 

"Oh Gods," Sansa cries out suddenly, sharp and loud, and Robb is so lost in his head that he doesn't realize she's peaking until he feels her flesh pulsing under his fingers, and she presses her mouth against his, kisses him hard, her tongue in his mouth. "Say you're mine," she breathes against his mouth, her hand still curled tight into his hair. "Always, you're mine, and you'll never leave me." 

"I'm yours," he stutters, his fingers still rub madly over her, and his cock is so hard now it hurts every time he shifts on his feet, every time the wool of his breeches rubs on him through his smallclothes. "I'm yours. I'll never leave you. I love you, Sansa. I love you. I love you. I'll never stop." 

He kisses her face, every inch of it, her mouth, her jaw, her eyelids, her nose. He pushes his tongue deep into her mouth, lets her suck on it, does the same to hers when she reciprocates. Her hand squeezes him through his smallclothes and breeches, her long, thin fingers wrapping around his cock. 

"Sansa, Sansa, Sansa." He pants her name with short breaths, his face pressed obscenely against hers, bites at her bottom lip, tugs at it until she cries out and he thinks he's hurt her, but she's peaking again, and Robb's fingers dig into the material of her smallclothes, the damaged fabric rips easily now. 

He pushes two fingers inside her, just to the second knuckle, the tips of his fingers against her barrier while his thumb rubs over her nub, but it's enough, its more than enough, and Robb peaks, hard and fast, his seed shooting out into his smallclothes, a pressure so intense he thinks he might pass out. Sansa's hand is still around him. strokes him through it, and her cunt pulses around his fingers as she peaks for a third time. 

When they separate, when Robb steps away from her with soiled breeches and wet, wrinkled fingers, he does not know what to say. Sansa stands, pushing her skirts back down, straightening them and her hair. 

"Thank you," she says, pressing a hand to one of his cheeks, and a kiss to the other. She glides out of the room as gracefully as any Queen ever could, and Robb understands it then, why Jaime Lannister has done the things he has done. Unashamed, Jaime Lannister loves his sister, and Robb wishes that he had that luxury.


End file.
